The story is that A shining city on the hill Was raised to serve as a Beacon for the world Lighting the way to Liberty and justice for all And though the ideal was not achieved For many or for long If for any or at all It was yet held up and out as The ideal The goal toward which all ought to strive And no few did more than make a show in that effort
Something of the sort? Photo by Matheus Bertelli on Pexels.com
The story is seldom told anymore Striving seen as to no good end And those who boasted they ought to be better Have let themselves lapse into silence Screaming until throats were bloodied Availing nothing against the cacophonous din Lost amid more dissonance than An augmented fourth or minor second will sound And I do not know if it is a relief that The pretense has gone away or A sullen, sodden shame that The light has been let dim and die out at last
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Read the previous entry in the serieshere. Read the next entry in the serieshere.
Evidently, too, this is the 1500th post to this webspace. Hooray!
After a brief quotation regarding secrecy, “The Felling of Fallstar” opens with a shift in season from Winterfest to summer on a day years after that finds Fitz seated in a tavern and reflecting on news from Hearth and Just, two of Molly’s children with Burrich. He considers gifts for family until interrupted by a Skill-sending from Nettle expressing concern for Chade, who has evidently fallen and is comatose. The sending contains a summons from Dutiful, now fully King of the Six Duchies, and an order to travel by portal-stone. Fitz balks, citing earlier experience, but the order is reiterated, and he makes arrangements to comply.
This again… Image source still in image, still used for commentary
Fitz reluctantly leaves Molly behind to answer his king’s summons and goes trepidatiously through the nearest Skill-stone. He arrives at Buckkeep in as good an order as could be expected and hastens in.
Fitz, in his guise as Tom Badgerlock, reaches Chade’s side, where the halting coterie of which he had been part is assembled, along with Nettle and her half-brother, Steady. Fitz, overstepping, issues orders that Dutiful echoes, compelling compliance, and he assesses Chade’s situation, finding it grim. He confers with those present to learn more details, finding Chade sealed off from the Skill much like Burrich had been. Fitz posits reasons for the action and begins to puzzle at how to address the issue. Kettricken joins the conversation, and suggests that Fitz likely knows or can most likely guess the answer. Fitz makes an initial attempt and fails, after which he and Dutiful confer.
Attempts continue into the night, and Fitz stumbles into the answer to his problem amid continued conversation with Dutiful. Finding it, he pulls Skill-strength from those in his company and works to Chade’s healing, guiding it with the expertise of long anatomical study. Chade regains consciousness and makes some complaints before lapsing into sleep, followed soon by Fitz.
Fitz wakes to Thick tending Chade, and he reports to Dutiful and Kettricken. Kettricken again urges Fitz to spend more time at Buckkeep, which he refuses, and Fitz calls back on Chade. The two converse together for a time, both of them much as they had always been together. Fatigue begins to tell on the old man, and Fitz takes his leave.
The comment from Chade at the beginning of the chapter is an interesting one. The old man is correct, of course, even if it is something of a pat statement; the more people who know a thing, the less of a secret it can be. And I am put in mind of earlier events in Fitz’s narrative, such as noted here, pointing to how much knowledge is and can be lost simply because it is never made available to someone who might keep it. But then, that’s one of the things for which fiction is good; it prompts rumination, and thinking is always a useful thing to do and have done.
Something I notice the chapter doing is musing on the approach of age. There are motions toward it in earlier chapters, of course, explicit mention of Molly passing her childbearing years (to which Fitz’s slowed aging is explicitly juxtaposed) and Patience’s own advancing age. The maturing and going-out of Molly’s younger children is also attested
The present chapter makes note of Kettricken going entirely gray, although the remark is made that it is seemingly early. Chade, on whom the present chapter focuses, had always been older in the series, having been the older brother of Fitz’s grandfather, Shrewd; there had been several comments made about his fading powers in the Tawny Man trilogy, for example. To have him fallen and be unable to rise again, however, points directly toward a commonplace of aging (LifeCall and similar products having made much of it for many years in the consumerist programming typical of the last decades of the twentieth century); even more than in previous entries in the Realm of the Elderlings novels, Chade’s situation in the present chapter comes across as something of a shock. Donne’s Holy Sonnet 6 comes to mind.
Biographical criticism is always fraught–authors can well write of things not in in their direct experience, after all–but it is irresponsible to assert that the circumstances of writers’ lives will have no impact upon the writing they do. I note that the novel is published in 2014, at which point, Hobb was in her 60s. I grew up in Kerrville, Texas, a town that boasts a large population of people at or past retirement age. My own parents, even now, are in their 60s. Experience suggests to me that no few people in that age range give no small thought to their advancing years and the decline of physical and mental capacities that often attend thereupon. I have to wonder the extent to which such was on Hobb’s mind as she composed the text, though I know it is an idle wondering; whether it was, and how much it was if it was, doesn’t much change the effect of the text on the reader or how it is achieved, and that’s really where the focus of criticism has to be.
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In the Texas Hill Country, where I live and where I grew up, preparations for today’s total solar eclipse have been long a-making and even longer under discussion. The town where I live, Johnson City, had expected tens of thousands of visitors and even more people passing through on their way to Stonewall, Fredericksburg, Kerrville, Marble Falls, Burnet, and other places. The town and many of its institutions made plans to shut down against the increased traffic, and I confess to being happy to have a day off despite the season, as well as for seeing the city take what seemed to me to be reasonable and prudent measures to address the perceived state of emergency, even as I found myself somewhat annoyed by the apocalyptic talk.
Over the weekend, not as much of the crowds materialized as had been thought. Yes, there was more traffic flowing on the US highways that go through town than is normal for a weekend, but it wasn’t nearly the days-long parking-lot that had been feared. Honestly, relatively few people stopped off in town; the impression people reported to me having was that people were just passing through, heading off to other destinations where festivals and other events had been planned around the eclipse rather than camping out in this small town.
I have mixed feelings about it. Admittedly, Johnson City is small, and the county of which it is the seat is rural and sparsely populated. It does not have the infrastructure or the personnel to deal with a massive influx of people, even with the long planning time that an easily-forecast celestial event allows. That it did not have to exert itself in ways it is not equipped to do is not a bad thing. At the same time, though, that the prediction did not come true means the next one will be less believed, and sometimes, the boy who cries wolf really does see one stalking about.
Too, the relative dearth of people stopping in town means the local businesses, which had been hoping for the influx and had prepared for it by increasing staffing and inventory, are now in far less stable positions than they had been. Some of the inventory, perhaps even much of it, will last, and it will be available for use for weeks and months to come, saving costs in the coming days–but a lot of it is perishable foodstuffs that will have to be discarded, unless one or another of our local eateries decides taking the risk is worth it.
That is, of course, a dangerous prospect in a small town. After all, folks know where folks live.
For my own part, though, I am glad for the time off, as I noted. I am more glad that I have gotten to spend it with the people I love most and at home, both of which are attractive prospects to me at any time. I look forward to the next time I get to do it–hopefully without the antecedent upset.
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One thing done and Just enough time to Take a breath before The next thing has to Begin and I find myself pecking away at the keys again Though I have never been able to play piano well And there is no reed to which to put my lips and tongue today
Tis the season… Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich on Pexels.com
Still There is music in it A strain and refrain and another melodic line Carrying through the lot as I Hammer out some idle percussion for a few bars Until another audience arrives that Paid for a different show entirely
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To those of you who have been reading, first, my thanks. I see you, and I appreciate that you take the time from your day to read a bit about what I do with my days. I do hope you’ll keep doing it, and I hope it will be because I continue to give you something worth reading.
Second, as I think I might have mentioned once or twice, I started working in a tax preparation and bookkeeping office at the start of the year. Tax Day in the United States is 15 April this year (with some exceptions for folks who’ve been impacted by natural disasters of one kind or another, for whom, my sympathies). Consequently, I have been busy, and when I have not been, I have been tired. That’ll ease up soon, but, until then, I don’t know that I’ll be able to add to things that I’ve been doing here (notably the Hobb Reread). I’m not abandoning any projects, and I hope that I won’t have to put anything on pause, but I might have to do so.
I suppose, then, that this is to let folks (and I might be one of those folks) know that I’m okay and that I will be okay. I just might have to put my head down a little more than usual for a little bit, is all. So if you don’t hear from me, that’s why.
It is the truth that some few years have passed Since of this observation I wrote last And marked how lines bespoke such showers sweet As rise in spring. I then still thought it meet That I should speak as with authority And not as penitent, making a plea. Now, though the Ram is not quite halfway through The course it runs, and it is not as true That people long to go on pilgrimages As they once were, the season still engages Thoughts of reverdie as flowers bloom Brighter far than any painted room And many mount on wheels to pass them by And marvel at the ground-held sunset sky.
Something like that, yeah. Photo by Mike Bird on Pexels.com
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The words of wonder that wind through ages Scribed into stone and standing on leaves that Fell from no tree–no great feat, that– March in their masses as must well be done While I, not worthy, watch them pass by Saluting those soldiers, sentinels of lore, Yearning for years to yoke myself to them.
They walk through the world, while I Remain here, rooted. They rove And carry their contents, commanding attention, Gift I, too, gave them, and gladly I did, Hurt that they heeded no hope that I held. They pass on, proceeding, a parade through ages, Trudging through ticker-tape, teasing the mind With wonder of what might have been, were things otherwise.
No axle-span asks me what I would offer, Bespeaks its forbearance, bids me be patient In dreams in the darkness, when my lights are dimmed. No gold or gemstones glitter before me In inward eye-work, no eager wood Speaks of its strength and surrender to will Of the fruit that it, fertile, felt compelled to avenge. No such man am I to have such a vision And the words of wonder that persist in the world, Beauty in bard-craft, betray all the changes From their time to this, as might well be thought.
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He would often sing of a man from Abas Whose nethers were somehow constructed from glass And those gathered ’round would give him a pass Though that little song was well without class
Something of a source, perhaps? Photo by Liudmyla Shalimova on Pexels.com
But I am no better who have my own song That I bellow out, all day and night long And in all that lowing hope I appear strong Though I do but writhe upon fear’s fork’s prong
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Elliott RWI 